Forgiveness
by VHunter07
Summary: If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature.....
1. Authors' Note

Hello again everyone!

Well, ya'll liked my first little oneshot so much, (and I liked my little oneshot so much, I really did! lol) that I decided to try my hand at another. This one is actually a sequel to the first, so if you haven't read "Farewell", I suggest you scroll on down the story page and do so or you might possibly not understand what "Forgiveness" is about. Anyway...oh yes, I have a small annoucement to make for anyone who cares to hear, (mainly SherlockAshFowl & Susicar) that the sequel to "A Matter of Taste" is well under way, and you may expect the first installment possibly by next week!!!! I hope you will enjoy it as much as you did the first. Thanks guys!

Btw: Thx everyone for heeding my pleadings! We've had updates & new stories galore:) ttyl!

-Vee


	2. Forgiveness

**"Forgiveness"**

* * *

"If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature."

_- The Blue Carbuncle_

She laid the magazine down on the side table and gazed out of the window. Winters' white mantel covered all that lay before her. The fences were scarcely visible against the blanket of snow that covered the ground. The horses in the pasture huddled together for warmth. It was frightfully cold.

A rather loud pop from the fireplace startled her slightly. She smiled. Christmas was such a wonderful time. A time to celebrate the birth of the Saviour, to spread joy and peace...to be thankful for what one has been given.

Christmas had always been her favourite time. Looking about the old sitting room she could almost see the children again, running to and fro, their father for once not stopping them. After all this was Christmas, she'd said, let the boys play. Her elder son had been a somewhat adverse to the idea. Really, he'd said, a boy of my age? She had reminded him his age was only fourteen. He should play while he had the chance. He'd adamantly refused, pointing his prominent nose skyward. Yet within the hour, his younger brother had coaxed him into a rather wild game of chase.

She could not help but laugh aloud upon remembering the sight. The little boy had always been the faster of the two, which infuriated his brother to no end. In and out of the house they went, making such a din, their mother had feared the landlord would hear them all the way up the hill.

She'd been making dinner when the child came rushing through. Jumping behind her skirts, he made a sign for silence with his hand. She nodded and continued plucking the chicken. When her other son suddenly came barreling into the kitchen, the little boy made not a sound. His mother marveled at his limitless energy, running for at least a quarter of an hour, and he wasn't even breathing hard. Yet, she could feel his heart beating rapidly against her leg, pounding with the thrill of the chase. His poor brother, practically heaving, finally gave up. Denouncing the game to be a foolish waste of valuable oxygen, he marched away to his room.

Wiping her hands on her blue apron, his mother ruffled the little boys' thick black hair; as if in this way she could eradicate the disappointment of the games' premature end. Her attempts were successful. She lifted him up onto the sideboard next to her, and continued the dinner preparations.

The woman remembered his eager little face as he leaned over to look through of the kitchen window at the snow covered world. She remembered his usual myriad of questions about the hows' and whys' of the powdery white carpet.

The smile faded from her face as the event of the next moment crossed her thoughts. Her husband had entered the kitchen, wearing an expression of care beyond his years. She recalled how hard it had been at that time for him. Work was scarce, money was stretched farther than one would think possible. They'd all known Christmas would not be plentiful. Every night, the provider of their family had come home more worried and depressed than the night before. That night had been no different. She had sensed his fear as he kissed her cheek. Their young son's eyes had followed their every movement, seeing through every false word of comfort. He'd always been a perceptive child.

She could not remember how exactly the conversation had turned to finances, but without warning, it developed into an argument. They had planned on sending their eldest child to a boy's school in London, now his father said it was impossible. There simply wasn't enough.

The woman frowned as she recalled her own pleas. An education had seemed the most important thing on the earth to her then. The children _must_ go to school, at all costs. At the time, neither of them had noticed the effect their harsh words had upon the little boy atop the cabinet.

"Mother..."

He'd said quietly, but they paid him no heed, so caught up were they in their heated discussion.

"Mother, your-"

This second request for attention was rewarded by a vociferous order of silence from his father. The third time received the same. Suddenly all speech was ceased by a tremendous crash that demanded immediate attention.

She and her husband turned to find the chicken she'd been preparing for their dinner splattered upon the floorboards. Amongst the feathers and bones were the remains of the large, ceramic bowl which had held the food. Sprawled amidst the mess, a seemingly frequent position, was their son; staring up at his parents with wide eyes.

His mother remembered her own despair. That chicken had cost her fourteen pence, and had been purchased with the last of her washing money. Now there would be no meat for Christmas dinner. The bowl had belonged to her grandmother. She'd run from the room in a flood of tears. Through the thin walls of her bedroom, she heard the shouts of her husband. Peering out her window she watched the child responsible for the catastrophe led with downcast eyes to the barn. Hardly breathing, she'd listened to the administered punishment, wincing with each audible stroke. Upon completion of his regrettable task, she'd seen her husband leave the barn and walk down toward the fields. Forgetting her ruined meal, the woman had run to the barn, in search of her chastised son.

She knew exactly where he would be. In times of conflict he ran at once to his refuge in the loft. Disappearing into his own world. She remembered his little hideaway quite vividly. Many tiny bottles of different concoctions, tubes, stained saucepans, papers with that small, spidery hand, books piled high, and a pint sized violin tucked away somewhere amidst all the mess. It was here that she had found her son, sitting in the corner, his instrument lying across his lap; his thin little fingers plucking absently at the strings. She made her way to his side.

Tears ran down her face as she recalled the look in his eyes when she'd gently lifted his chin. They were filled with a look of... almost of betrayal. No sign of weeping was visible, but he had never been one for crying. She had not known what to say. She'd put her arm around his small shoulders in a gesture of comfort, that was almost more for herself than for him.

"I'm sorry your father is so terribly harsh at times, I know you didn't do it intentionally. He's just, well, I suppose he's a little upset about work, and well, things are more difficult, as you get older you'll-"

"You were both fighting." He interrupted in a small, quiet voice.

"Yes, well-"

"You said Father was selfish, and he said you were foolish."

"We were-"

"But you're not. Neither of you."

"We're not what, darling?"

"You're not foolish...and...and Father isn't selfish. He's just trying to do what's best for us, Mother. I know it's hard for both of you."

"Yes, it's hard, but we have to think of you and your brother first. I only wanted him to see that-"

"He knows that, and he's trying. It's not our place to judge him, and I think...I think we should forgive him."

He'd looked up at her with those fathomless grey eyes, " It is Christmas, Mother."

"But your education is the most-"

"Maybe we can't go to school right now, but everything will be alright, I know it will."

She had been speechless. Her intentions had been to comfort him, to console him for the somewhat extreme punishment that had been executed for a simple childish accident. Yet he had responded to her needs rather than the intended arrangement. She brushed his dark hair away from his face with the back of her hand.

"Do you know that you are a very gifted boy?"

She was rewarded with a small smile. "Yes."

Laughing, she embraced her somewhat egotistical seven year old.

"I love you."

"I love you too, Mother."

"Would you like to come down with me, or shall you wait awhile longer?"

"I want to play with my violin, I'll come later."

"Alright then."

She turned and stepped down onto the ladder, wondering what on earth she could prepare in place of that now ceramic embedded chicken.

"Mother?"

"Yes?" She'd said, stopping half way through the trapdoor. The boy crawled forward and pulled something from his pocket...a piece of torn, faded blue material. With a rather mischievous smile he placed it in his mothers' hand.

"What's this?"

"Evidence."

"Evidence? Of what?"

"I won't tell Father that it was you, I promise. It's a piece of your apron that was caught underneath the bowl...it ripped when you turned away..." He trailed off, leaving her to complete the picture.

"You mean I was-"

"Merry Christmas, Mother."

"Merry Christmas, my dear."

The woman laughed through her tears. Such a dear child. To think all that time she'd been the one at fault, and he never said a word. She reached over and lifted the magazine again, rereading the last paragraph.

_"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony. But it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness."_


End file.
